


Cicatrice

by shara



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4474082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shara/pseuds/shara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: House and Wilson go leaf peeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cicatrice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [cindy_lou_who8](http://cindy-lou-who8.livejournal.com/) for the House/Wilson Holiday Gift Exchange.

House falls asleep as they pass exit 12 on I-80, head pillowed on his arm against the passenger-side window. By the time they cross into Pennsylvania, Wilson is feeling tired himself, blinking back sleep against the glare of the setting sun, blurry around the edges. He rolls down the window and the cold mountain air helps a little, but what hits harder is the _smell_. It’s an autumn smell, and it jumps at him, brings back memories of years long past, of playing football with his brothers, being tired and sweaty and sore; of coming home to his mother’s pumpkin pie, its smell wafting through the house; of the sweet taste of cider on his tongue.

He glances at House as he pulls over, but he’s still fast asleep, looking calm and innocent, peaceful in a way that makes Wilson smile, no worry lines marking his face. He makes sure that he’s well off the road before turning the ignition off and unbuckling his seat-belt. And then he gets out, and suddenly the whole world is illuminated, the dying light slanting against the curve of the sky, gilding everything, and even the dark brown tree trunks are glinting gold.

It rained here recently and his feet squelch under him in the mess of earth and dead leaves. A voice in his head reminds him, _French leather shoes_ , but right now he doesn’t care. It’s all bright and red around him, the smell of earth and crisp, fresh air beckoning him, and he can feel himself waking up with every breath.

He crunches his way to the wall of trees that lines the road and passes through, walks in deeper until he’s surrounded, his car a flash of sun on metal behind him. He stops and breathes deep, listens to the quiet rustlings of leaves in the wind, the far-off calling of birds. He trails a hand along the trunk of a tree and admires the texture, hard and rough and brittle, so unlike the soft leather of a steering wheel, the cool plastic of an IV line, the warmth of House’s hand on his skin.

The best thing about fall, he knows, is the pile of leaves gathered around the base of every tree trunk like the folded crumple of skirts. He kicked a little at the pile around his feet, likes the crinkling cacophony, the quiet rustle. One leaf catches the wind and somersaults over and over, pulled along by the breeze until it finally drifts down as well. It reminds of him of helping his father rake the yard as a kid, of racing with his brothers to build the biggest pile so they could jump into it, stuff leaves down each others’ shirts, wrestle each other in a sodden, muddy mess. He’s wondering what would happen if he tried that now, kicked all the leaves together and dove in, but he knows he won’t do it; he’s too aware of his suit jacket, his expensive tailored pants, and the way leaf-juice would never come out of his cream-colored shirt.

“Leaf- _shit_ ,” he remembers House saying vehemently one day while he tried to clean the mess off the bottom of his cane in the hospital bathroom. He had been in an especially bad mood because he’d slipped that morning, cane skidding on the wet leaves, saved only by Wilson’s hand at his elbow. “I hate this goddamn season.”

“You hate every season,” Wilson had said, rolling his eyes and handing him another paper towel.

The shuffle-step he hears a moment later is almost like a rebuttal and it makes him smile. The sound is a little different when disguised by crunchy leaves, but Wilson recognizes it just the same. He doesn’t even need to turn around.

“Finding your zen place?” House calls out.

“Yeah, actually,” Wilson says mildly. “I’m thinking of running away. Becoming one with nature.” He has to turn around then, because he knows the look House is giving him is priceless.

“We’re already running away,” House says irritably. He’s rubbing the back of his neck; he probably got a crick in it from sleeping awkwardly. “Any more than a week and Cuddy will send cops after us.”

Cuddy had practically begged Wilson to take House on vacation, but he wasn’t going to tell House that.

“A whole week without House,” she’d said, sounding elated. “I might actually get work done now. It’ll be the best week of my life.”

Wilson had smiled at her over his coffee and found that he did not quite share her sentiment.

He grins over at House now and kicks a pile of leaves at him. House bats them away with his cane, scowling. “What are you, twelve?”

“It’s fun,” Wilson says. “Come on, House, even you have to appreciate how pretty it is out here.”

“Everything’s shriveled up and dying,” House says, rolling his eyes. “How is that pretty?”

Wilson stares at him, startled into silence, and then turns to look around himself again, and now it all looks different. He notices the brown tinge of the leaves that had once seemed orange and red, the way the trees looked bedraggled, weighed down by soggy leaves, glistening with rainwater.

There’s a silence, a pause, and then House asks quietly, “What are you thinking about?”

  _Amber_ , he thinks, and how he never got to spend an autumn with her, never got to see her against a backdrop of red and gold, or take note of the color her cheeks might have turned at the touch of the brisk air.

But as he turns back toward House and sees him standing here, listing to the right as always, surrounded by dying leaves, telegraphing concern with his steady, guarded gaze, he doesn’t feel the expected twinge of bitterness. Instead, he feels only overwhelmingly, humbly grateful. Somehow, over the past year, through the arguments and discoveries, through House’s fumbling attempts at affection and the promise of new beginnings, he has been quietly letting go of the regret inside himself and opening his eyes again.

“I’m glad you’re here, House,” he says finally, and he means it. He’s grateful, so grateful that House is still standing in front of him with his graying hair and scruffiness, his raised eyebrows and his cool, disdainful look.

“Here,” House repeats. “As opposed to inside the car, where it’s warm and dry and distinctly less muddy.”

“Yes, exactly,” says Wilson, wading through the piles of crumpled leaves toward him. He smiles at House’s bewilderment and curves his hand around House’s neck to pull him in for a kiss, and it’s both familiar and comfortable, like coming home.

Everything dies, he knows, but they have time yet.

“Let’s go take that vacation,” he murmurs against House’s lips and brushes his thumb one last time over House’s cheekbone, over the soft skin there, before pushing away. He ignores House’s mutter about hopeless romantics and starts walking back to the car, the cool fall air washing over him.

  


End file.
